


Man's Best Friend

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Birth, Dogs, M/M, Mpreg, trouble conceiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “Britt,” Sherlock replied, absently, and the puppy twisted to look up at him as though she recognized her name. She put a paw on Sherlock’s chest, as high as she could reach, and licked his chin. A tear streaked down Sherlock’s cheek and Britt’s blanket fell to the floor as he lifted her up and let her lick all over his face and cheeks, laughter bubbling up from his chest for the first time in months. “John - you - this is why you’ve been, why you’ve…”"I, erm, wanted it to be a surprise. Seems like you needed someone to take care of, and I thought she…she might help, a bit.”Britt’s cold nose was in Sherlock’s ear, but he didn’t mind. He scratched her neck, her long red-brown hair soft under his fingers. He couldn’t stop smiling. “You got me a puppy,” he said.





	Man's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GuixonLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuixonLove/gifts).



Sherlock tossed another test in the garbage can, still able to see the pink end of the last one poking up out through used tissue and wrappers. After this much time, he thought, he should have been used to the single line on the screen of every test, never changing, no matter how much he hoped. Another month, another negative. The first time he’d bought the multi-pack of tests, he’d hoped that he wouldn’t use them all before they expired. He’d bought another multi-pack to take this test. 

 

He didn’t even have to tell John when he came home. The alpha took one look at him, knees tucked up to his chest on the sofa - like he was trying to hide the emptiness of his belly - and gathered him up, holding his thin body close while Sherlock determinedly did not cry. It was stupid to cry, after this long. Insanity, wasn’t it? Trying the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result? 

 

But as the months wore on and Sherlock’s body stayed stubbornly barren, it started taking its toll. Month after month of negative tests left Sherlock craving a baby almost more for the sense of feeling whole that would come with it than he did for the want of a child - to feel like his body wasn’t a failure. Just to prove that he could do this, that even after years of abuse and neglect, his transport could still carry out its intended purpose. Every month went from feeling like a failure to feeling like a broken body, unable to do something so simple as conceive. Everything Sherlock did started to revolve around being able to conceive - every meal properly healthy, no alcohol, tracking his ovulation and trying to focus on enjoying sex with his alpha through the haze of hoping that this, at last, would be the seed that took root. 

 

He knew he wasn’t acting himself anymore. He wasn’t the omega John had married and bonded - he was someone else entirely, someone sad and broken. He was half afraid John would leave him - his stalwart, loyal mate, leaving him for someone whose body worked the way it was supposed to. The thought of John leaving made him sick, and the betrayal that came with the thought of even considering that his John would leave him made him sicker. 

 

Sherlock’s fears weren’t allayed when John came home late from work with bags that he stashed away in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, not allowing Sherlock to see what they were. For several days in a row, John would hurry in as quietly as he could, staying in Mrs. Hudson’s flat for a few minutes before heading upstairs, looking suspicious. Sherlock was working up the courage to confront him about it as John came up the stairs on a Thursday afternoon, more than an hour after he usually got home from work. “Hello,” he said, turning around as John came through the door. “We need to - I need to talk to you -“ 

 

“Yeah, okay, just hang on a tick, I’ve got…a thing,” John said, and Sherlock saw the bundle in John’s arms just in time for him to deposit it in Sherlock’s arms. 

 

It wiggled. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he looked at John curiously. John gestured excitedly back at the bundle, and it occurred to Sherlock that he should unwrap the blanket and see what it was. 

 

Russet hair, soft and shiny, and a little black nose. The little thing let out a whimper and Sherlock absolutely, positively, did _not_ whimper back. “John…” 

 

“Her name is Britt,” John said, pulling the corner of the blanket back a little more and letting the puppy squirm upright to look around. “But you can change it if you want, that’s just the name the, erm, breeder picked…” 

 

“Britt,” Sherlock replied, absently, and the puppy twisted to look up at him as though she recognized her name. She put a paw on Sherlock’s chest, as high as she could reach, and licked his chin. A tear streaked down Sherlock’s cheek and Britt’s blanket fell to the floor as he lifted her up and let her lick all over his face and cheeks, laughter bubbling up from his chest for the first time in months. “John - you - this is why you’ve been, why you’ve…” 

 

“Her crate and food and everything are down in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, yeah,” John said, running his fingers through his hair with an expression of relief. “I wanted to make sure I had everything ready for her when the breeder was ready to send her home. I, erm, wanted it to be a surprise. Seems like you needed someone to take care of, and I thought she…she might help, a bit.” 

 

Britt’s cold nose was in Sherlock’s ear, but he didn’t mind. He scratched her neck, her long red-brown hair soft under his fingers. He couldn’t stop smiling. “You got me a puppy,” he said, the only words his mind could string together. 

 

“Yeah, I did.” John grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t like a bulldog - god knows why, seriously, I bloody love bulldogs - but I see now why you like Irish Setters so much. They’re as fancy and foppish as you are, you menace. I had to get like four different brushes for her coat, and some special shampoo. She’ll be as high-maintenance as you are.” 

 

“She’ll be perfect,” Sherlock said, holding the puppy out to look at. It was like looking at Redbeard again, when he was a puppy, as energetic and wiggly as Britt was now. He felt more tears gather in his eyes. He’d never thought he’d get another dog, not after Redbeard, but now that he was holding this puppy, he would have given his life for hers. In an instant, Sherlock knew that John had done just the right thing. This was exactly what he needed right now. “John…” 

 

“You’re welcome, beautiful.” John stood up on his tiptoes and, Britt between them, kissed Sherlock softly. “I’m not walking her. And if she pees on the floor, you get to clean it up.” And with that, John turned around to fetch Britt’s supplies from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, leaving Sherlock to get acquainted with his new dog. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and Britt got along like a house on fire. Every morning, Sherlock woke at the crack of dawn and clipped Britt’s leash on, and they went for walks. John joined them occasionally, for as long as it took to get to the doctor’s office, and then Sherlock and his dog would continue on. She grew quickly, changing from a bounding puppy to a fine young dog, intelligent and energetic. Sherlock proudly showed John every trick he taught her, starting with basic ‘sit’s and ‘stay’s and then to ‘roll over’ and ‘play dead,’ which John scowled at, for obvious reasons. 

 

Britt learned to ‘shake hands’ when asked, and greeted visitors to their flat with a toy of her choice to share with them. She was well-mannered, and John was more than impressed. She began to accompany them on cases, and John had to admire the silhouette they cast - Sherlock on the moors in his coat, Britt beside him, nose up, tail out. They were an inseparable pair before the year was out. 

 

The setter changed Sherlock’s attitude wholly. Having someone, even a puppy, to take care of every day made Sherlock find a routine, and gave him something to do. She needed walked several times a day, and played with frequently. Training her gave Sherlock a challenge. And at the end of the day, she was happy to sit next to him on the sofa, her head on his thigh, loyal and content. Britt gave Sherlock someone to love and take care of, someone to distract from the emptiness between his hips that had, before her arrival, become nearly all-consuming. Over time, the box of tests started to gather dust under the sink, forgotten. 

 

Sherlock awoke one morning, a year and a half after John had brought Britt home, to his dog jumping up on the bed - something he’d taught her _not_ to do when she was very young. “Not for dogs,” he grumbled, pushing her back off the bed and onto the floor. Britt whined and put her feet up on the mattress, nosing at Sherlock’s neck. “No,” he said, pushing her down again. She sat, but unhappily, whining and lifting and setting down her feet quickly so her toenails clicked against the floor. Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes, peering at the time. “It’s five in the morning, Britt. We don’t go walk until six.” She whined and shoved her nose against his face. He huffed and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

 

“And I don’t get up until seven,” John said gruffly, hand pushing against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock swatted his hand away and stood up, shuffling out of the bedroom. A quiet “fuck off and go walk your dog” sounded from behind him, and Sherlock shut the door behind him with a sleepy grin. 

 

“This had better not become habit, young lady,” Sherlock said, pulling on his sweat trousers and running shoes and clipping Britt’s leash on. He left the flat as quietly as he could, Britt right alongside him, and stretched for a few minutes before setting off at a brisk jog. They ran for half an hour before Sherlock stopped to buy a coffee. He sat down at a table outside the coffee shop, idly watching the light early-morning traffic go by. He was enjoying his coffee when Britt, apropos of nothing, shoved her nose between his thighs, startling him so he spilled coffee on his shirt. “Britt!” he said, peeling the wet cloth away. He pushed her back with his foot and she stomped again as she had earlier, looking anxious. “What is wrong with you today?” He looked at her crossly as he wiped himself off as best he could, tossing the remainder of his coffee in the trash. 

 

They got home just as John woke up, and Sherlock nursed another coffee at the kitchen table, out of reach of his dog, who curled up on the floor beside him somewhat apologetically. “So what bee was in her bonnet this morning?” John asked, pausing to sniff at Sherlock’s sweaty nape before sitting down next to him. 

 

“I have no idea,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “But she’s been anxious all morning. Made me spill my coffee, shoving her nose into my groin, which I was not expecting.” 

 

“Might be a storm coming?” John suggested, glancing out the window. 

 

“She doesn’t usually get storm anxiety, but it could be,” Sherlock said, shaking his head again. Britt nosed at his ankle with a quiet whine. 

 

She was glued to his side all day, and the next day too. “You are not a lap dog,” he groused as she climbed into his lap, her considerable 25 kilo weight making him grunt as she tried to curl up in his lap. John watched with humor as she settled in with a huff and a sniff. “What is going on with you, Britt? I hope she’s not ill,” he said, forehead wrinkling with concern as he stroked her head and scratched behind her ears. “It’s very uncharacteristic behavior, but she doesn’t act sick. Just…needy.” 

 

Her behavior persisted for several more days, until Sherlock’s worry finally got the best of him and he took her to the veterinarian. “She’s been restless and anxious,” he said, as the veterinarian checked her vitals and did a quick examination. “Totally abnormal behaviors for her. She tried climbing in bed with me, which she knows she’s not allowed to do - curling up in my lap at night. She’s an affectionate dog, but she’s never climbed into my lap before, not even when she was a pup.” 

 

The veterinarian made a thoughtful noise. “Some of those symptoms point to a hysterical pregnancy,” she mused, palpating Britt’s abdomen. “But she’s not exhibiting any physical signs. No swollen mammary glands, no swollen abdomen. Have there been any changes at home that she might be responding to?” 

 

“No,” Sherlock said, trying to think of what might have changed that Britt would be reacting to. “Nothing has changed.” 

 

“No new additions? Visitors, family members, other pets? Have you changed her routine?” 

 

“No, it’s the same…no visitors, no new additions…” Sherlock’s mind slowed to a halt. No new additions that he _knew of…_

 

The veterinarian seemed to catch on right as Sherlock did, and she suppressed a smile when Sherlock looked down at himself, an absent hand hovering over his middle. “Sometimes,” she said gently, “the dogs know before we do. I’ve heard of it happening before.” 

 

Sherlock looked at his dog, who looked back at him, her deep brown eyes meeting his. “Britt,” he said, stroking the top of her head, his eyes watering. She seemed to smile back at him, her mouth opening and tongue hanging out the side as she panted. “Thank you,” he said to the vet, swiping at his eyes and shaking her hand. “I’ll - when I get home. Thank you,” he repeated, letting Britt off the table. 

 

“Good luck. I hope you get the result you’re hoping for,” she said, waving him off. They ran home, even though Sherlock was in jeans and a button-down and not his running gear. Britt ran happily at his side, pacing outside the flat door while Sherlock fumbled to open it. 

 

John was home, in his chair reading. “What did the vet find?” he asked when Sherlock opened the door, twisting to look around. His expression changed to real concern when he saw Sherlock, flushed and slightly red-eyed. “God! Sherlock, are you okay?” 

 

“I think - Britt’s been telling me I’m pregnant,” he said, saying the word out loud for the first time in months. His voice wavered. “I think - I’m going to - I just have to know.” He unclipped her leash and she followed him as he half-stumbled to the bath room, pulling out the box of tests. He didn’t bother closing the door, holding the stick in a shaking hand under his stream while John hovered in the doorframe. 

 

“Do you think - we haven’t really been trying, but…” John stepped into the small space when Sherlock set the test down on the counter, waiting for it to read. 

 

“We haven’t been _trying,_ but we have been having sex, and it could have…even if we weren’t timing my cycles.” Sherlock ran an anxious hand through his hair, his heart pounding and not entirely because of his run home. 

 

“Babe, you’re paler than I’ve ever seen you,” John soothed, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and stroking down his neck. His eyes searched Sherlock’s. “If you aren’t - it’s okay. We can keep trying. If you are…” 

 

“If I am…” Sherlock swallowed hard. He managed a nervous smile, though it didn’t last long before he blinked and scrubbed a hand over his face. “God…it’s just, what else could it be, her behavior has been so _strange_ and nothing else has changed…” 

 

Britt squirmed her way between them, looking up at Sherlock with a doggy smile. She rubbed her head against his thigh, searching for affection, and Sherlock was quick to respond, scratching behind her ears. “You know, don’t you, girl?” he murmured, and she made a low rumbling noise of pleasure. 

 

“Fuck,” John breathed, and Sherlock jumped a little, looking at John. The alpha was holding the test in his hand. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “Yeah, she does know. She knew before we did,” he said, and Sherlock was giddy, and crying, and Britt was barking and wagging her tail and John was hugging him tight. “You’re having a baby, Sherlock.” 

 

Sherlock, eyes open and tears streaming down his face, shook with joy and disbelief in John’s arms, clinging to his alpha. “I’m having a baby, John.” 

 

 

* * *

 

The next visit to an office was for Sherlock, and though Britt wasn’t technically allowed, Sherlock cited her as an emotional support animal and the nurses reluctantly let her come with him into the exam room. She sat quiet and well-behaved beside the table as he laid down, seemingly content now that Sherlock knew the news she had been trying to impart. 

 

Sherlock cried again when he saw the grainy image on the screen, and John was quick to follow suit. A washy little heartbeat played through the speakers, quick but steady. “Perfectly healthy,” the doctor pronounced, making notes in his chart. “Congratulations, Mr. Holmes.” He gave them Sherlock’s estimated due date - early June - and sent them home with a handful of printouts with their baby’s vitals, Sherlock’s vitals, and instructions for proper pre-natal nutrition and health. “Your daily runs are a great way to keep in shape, as long as you’re not over-working yourself.” 

 

“I think she deserves as many runs as she wants,” Sherlock said, fondling his dog’s ears and sniffling. The doctor chuckled and agreed, but Sherlock knew he didn’t know why Sherlock was so dedicated to his dog. Sherlock and John both knew that it was because Britt had given Sherlock someone to love and care for when he’d desperately needed it. And because of her presence, Sherlock had healed, and at long last, when he least expected it, he’d conceived. 

 

* * *

 

To Sherlock’s delight, his morning sickness was nothing more than a little queasiness when he awoke in the mornings to take Britt on her run. Once he had to duck into the bushes to spit up bile, but after that, a few saltine crackers before he went out to run helped settle his stomach. His stomach stayed stubbornly flat until he was nearly out of the first trimester.

 

Britt had detected his pregnancy at just before four weeks, and John realized that he’d actually picked up on it too, but subconsciously. Sherlock remembered a few times where John had smelled his neck at breakfast, but he hadn’t thought anything of it until his scent really changed and John’s nose was right up against his bond mark every morning, inhaling deeply like the scent change was an aphrodisiac. 

 

At eleven weeks, Sherlock noticed his running shirt was tighter than usual, riding up a little as he ran. When he got home, he stood in front of John, hands on his hips, and looked down at his stomach. John looked, too, and broke into a grin, peeling Sherlock’s shirt up and nuzzling the barely-there swell of it, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him into a tight hug. “That’s my baby in there,” he growled, kissing the skin until Sherlock was squirming and gasping and begging and John sat him on the counter and sucked him off. 

 

Sixteen weeks saw a proper bump and a proper rogering, Sherlock’s little belly cradled between them as John fucked him slow and sweet, Sherlock’s legs tight around John’s waist. They shared the news with their family and friends later that week, Sherlock blushing and stroking his bump while Mrs. Hudson cried and Molly offered to babysit. They didn’t know the sex of the baby, and didn’t want to find out - it had been a surprise to find out that Sherlock was pregnant at all, and they rather liked that surprise, so another one would be fine, too. 

 

Greg didn’t believe the story about Britt knowing before they did, but John and Sherlock both swore it was the truth, and eventually he was convinced. The dog in question, of course, was with them when they told everyone, and after Britt sniffed out the incision line from Greg’s recent carpal tunnel procedure and licked it gently, Greg was a believer. 

 

The first time Sherlock felt the baby kick, he was on the sofa, wearing a pair of loose shorts and a t-shirt that used to be loose. He was eighteen weeks gone, his belly round now. He was snacking on a plate of fruit and he felt his stomach rumble. It rumbled again a minute later, but Sherlock was suspicious of it, and really concentrated on the feeling. It was too low to be his stomach, and he wasn’t having indigestion. “The baby’s moving,” he said, prodding a dozing John. “Just now. It’s moving, I can feel it having a little flutter in there.” He pulled his shirt up and pressed a hand to his skin, feeling the movement a little more distinctly - little pops low in his belly. 

 

John stole a grape from his plate and put his hand next to Sherlock’s. “Where?” he asked, and Sherlock moved his hand close to where he felt it, though he knew it wasn’t strong enough for John to feel yet. “Right there,” he said, grinning. “I bet they’ll like running just like mummy does. What do you say, Britt? Will the baby like running?” Britt lifted her head at the sound of her name and pawed the floor once as if in affirmation. “Maybe daddy will have to start running with us, so we can run as a family.” 

 

“It wouldn’t do me any harm,” John grumbled, prodding his own belly. “Ugh, fine, but only because at some point you’re going to start slowing down and maybe then I can keep up.” Sherlock laughed and kept both their hands on his belly, feeling their baby move within him. 

 

For all the stress Sherlock had experienced around conceiving, the pregnancy went smoothly. He was in better health now than he had been when they’d first started trying - a year and a half of daily runs and routine would do that to a man, he suspected. Britt was still his constant companion, although as Sherlock’s pregnancy progressed, the space for her head on Sherlock’s lap diminished. His runs became shorter, too - where once he would run five miles in the morning, he started to tire after three miles and walked home instead. It was a gentle breaking-in for John, who was not a runner, and he started finishing Britt’s morning runs when Sherlock got too tired and had to stop. 

 

One morning, when John returned to the flat, Sherlock was in his chair, feet propped up on his ottoman. Britt ran over to him as soon as her leash was un-clipped and shoved her head against Sherlock’s belly, sniffing like mad. He grinned at John and scratched Britt’s head. “Kicking like crazy,” he said, beckoning John over. “These ones will be strong enough for you to feel.” He took his mate’s hand and laid it on his belly, and John’s eyes widened when he felt a firm thump against his hand. John dropped to his knees and put his other hand on Sherlock’s round middle, feeling more movement. “That’s our baby, saying hello to daddy,” he said, fingers brushing over his navel. “Getting big and strong in there.” 

 

“God,” John breathed, shaking his head. “It’s - sometimes I just. Can’t believe this happened, after so long trying. It’s amazing.” 

 

“I know.” Sherlock smiled, rubbing Britt’s head again. “When you brought her home, I thought that was the end of us trying. I thought I just wasn’t going to be able to conceive - that she was going to have to be our child. And I was fine with it,” he said quietly, a smile flickering across his lips when Britt let out a rumbling huff and laid her head on his knee. “I would have been happy, if that was the case.” 

 

“I don’t think it would have happened, if not for her,” John said, shifting to sit on the floor. “I think she…I think taking care of her made you less stressed. Gave you something else to focus on. You were…that was really hard on you. I hoped she’d help you be happier, but I didn’t dare to think she’d have helped that much.” John reached out and fondled the setter’s ear, which she accepted with a rumble. “I guess that makes this Britt’s baby as much as it does ours.” 

 

“Of course it does,” Sherlock said. “She’s part of our family.” 

 

* * *

 

“The bed is not for dogs,” Sherlock said, rolling over with a grunt of effort and pushing Britt carefully back off the bed. He winced and pressed a hand to his back. Britt whined and pawed the floor, shoving her nose under the sheets to lick at Sherlock’s elbow. He scratched her ear and then pushed her head away, grumbling and trying to fall back asleep, but damn it, now that he was awake, he realized he needed to pee. 

 

She padded along beside him and sat in front of him while he was on the toilet, looking at him expectantly. “Do you have some wisdom to impart, or are you being annoying?” Sherlock asked tiredly, scratching at an itchy stretch mark on the front of his belly. Britt cocked her head and licked the front of his belly, which Sherlock tolerated with a roll of his eyes. His dog seemed fascinated with his round middle, which had grown exponentially over the past few weeks. Sometimes, when she licked or nosed at it, the baby kicked, and she would nose back at the movement until it happened again. It didn’t this time, which Sherlock was thankful for. He wanted more rest - he’d been exhausted the night before, but had barely gotten any sleep. 

 

He narrowed his eyes at Britt. She looked back at him. 

 

“I refuse to believe that you know I’m in labor before I do,” he said, shaking his head. He stood up and washed his hands, glancing at himself in the mirror. He was a day over due, he _could_ be in labor. He certainly felt ready to have this baby. But there was no way that his dog could know that before he did. He got back into bed and Britt laid down next to the bed, peering up at him in the dim lamplight until he turned it back off. 

 

When he woke back up a few hours later to a fierce cramp, he cursed and shook his head. “Bloody dog knows my body better than I do,” he groaned, swatting John until he woke up. John made a questioning noise and switched on the lamp. “I’m in labor. It’s time,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Britt told me earlier, but I didn’t believe her.” 

 

“How did she - you know, never mind,” John said, and then seemed to realize what Sherlock had said. “Holy - holy shit, the baby’s coming.” He stared, wide-eyed at Sherlock. 

 

“That’s typically what a labour means,” Sherlock said drily, sitting up with a wince and a heavy sigh. “Let’s go for a run.” 

 

The run was shorter than usual, and Sherlock stopped every fifteen minutes to lean against John and breathe through a contraction. The last one came only twelve minutes after its predecessor, and that was John’s signal to get Sherlock back home, because as the numbers came down, the time would only grow closer. Sherlock didn’t complain, just jogged alongside John, a little slower than usual. His back ached and his hips were loose, but the run had worked out some of the ache and left him with more energy than he’d started with. He got into the shower as soon as they got home, rinsing sweat and exertion from his body. He ran a hand over his full, round middle, feeling a thrill of excitement. He was so ready to meet their baby. 

 

He’d been approved for an at-home labor and birth. He was glad, because there was no way he was going to go to a hospital where Britt wouldn’t be at his side. She had become more than an emotional support animal and was Sherlock’s partner, his friend. When he got out of the shower and re-dressed in loose, comfortable clothes, Britt was waiting outside the bath room, and licked his palm when he bent to stroke her head. 

 

The minutes between contractions ticked down steadily. Twelve minutes became ten, became eight, became six, became five. Lunch passed, and mid-afternoon John filled a plastic pool with water in the living room while Sherlock paced the living room, occasionally leaning against the back of the couch and groaning deeply when a contraction gripped him. When Britt nosed anxiously at his hand, he let her lead him to the loo, sitting down just in time for his water to break. John stood in the doorway and Sherlock met his gaze, rolling his eyes again and shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said, scratching her ear. “I’ve stopped questioning it.” 

 

John laughed. “Yeah, fair enough.” He helped Sherlock back up and cleaned him off a little, noticing some blood in the crease of his arse. Getting closer, then. “Midwife Britt, delivering our baby,” he joked, the Irish Setter following them back to the sitting room. 

 

“You joke,” Sherlock said, watching Britt lay down on her bed next to the fireplace. “She’ll probably know I’m ready to push before I do.” 

 

It wasn’t necessarily true, but she was able to tell when Sherlock was getting very close. She paced anxious circles around him while he stood, arms around John’s neck, contractions rolling through him one on top of the other. “Sit,” Sherlock said roughly, and Britt obeyed, though John could see her almost quivering with tension. A fierce contraction gripped him and he cursed, sagging against John a little. Britt whined, echoing Sherlock’s groan. “Quiet,” he told her, and she silenced, never taking her eyes from Sherlock. 

 

It wasn’t more than half an hour before Sherlock was climbing into the pool, hips grinding, sweating and tense and pained. The setter followed her master and laid down beside the edge of the pool, watching as he gripped the plastic and leaned forward, trying to find a position where he had relief. In the end, it didn’t matter, as the urge to push overtook him and he grunted deeply through a contraction, pushing with all his might. 

 

John got into the pool behind him, pressing down a little on Sherlock’s back until the omega felt less like he would snap in two. He pushed again, his belly tight and low, and felt the baby’s body move a little inside his. “Starting to stretch, love,” John murmured, rubbing Sherlock’s hip. “Little pushes. Don’t tire yourself out.” 

 

“Too late,” Sherlock said, glancing out the window at the twilight. He’d been in labor since early that morning - just over fourteen hours, by his hazy math. He swiped at the sweaty hair on his forehead and pushed it back, gathering what was left of his strength for this, the home stretch. 

 

As he pushed, eyes closed, he felt a cold nose and a warm tongue on his cheek. He remembered that feeling from over two years ago, now, an eight-week-old russet puppy nosing at his ear. The squirmy bundle in his arms that had made him cry with happiness. He reached up and buried his fingers in the silky red-brown hair of Britt’s ruff and bore down again, letting his dog lick the sweat from his brow. He laughed her name and pushed again, forehead creasing, groaning loudly as he felt a red-hot stretch. He fisted his other hand in her thick fur and she let him, snuffling at his ear patiently while he laboured. 

 

“Good girl,” he heard John murmur, and he echoed his alpha’s words. “That’s it, Sherlock, another like that, the head’s almost out.” Sherlock felt it sliding from him, blunt and thick. “There you go. No cord, love, it’s perfect, give me another good strong push.” His dog made a quiet ‘boof’ in his ear and he took it as encouragement, bearing down again, even as the pain got worse and it felt like he was going to split open. 

 

Just as he was about to shout and beg for mercy, the feeling of fullness and stretch passed with a rush and he heard John make a noise of surprise. There was a moment of silence and then a whine, followed by a loud cry. Sherlock detangled his fingers from Britt’s ruff and pried his eyes open. “My god,” came John’s voice, and then the water splashed as John moved closer and laid a warm, wriggling bundle in his arms. “She’s perfect, Sherlock.” 

 

“Of course she is,” Sherlock said, his eyes filled with tears as he held his daughter close to his chest. “Of course she’s perfect, she’s ours.”

 

* * *

 

Fallon Britt Holmes-Watson was born into a family where she had a built-in best friend. Her dog was her constant companion, watching like a hawk as Fallon learned to roll over and crawl. The one and only time Britt left her side was to drag Sherlock from the laundry room to the sitting room just in time to see Fallon’s first steps. John looked up as Britt ran out of the room and came back moments later with his mate, and immediately looked to where the baby was pulling herself up to stand using the coffee table, as she’d done for a week - but then turned and, seeing her dog, took three steps toward her in order to kiss her doggie. Sherlock teared up and John gasped, and Britt twisted her head and grinned at the two of them. 

 

And a year later, when Britt woke Sherlock at five in the morning by climbing onto the bed, Sherlock didn’t even bother taking a test. If Britt was sure, then so was he. 

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out that dogs knowing their owners are pregnant is a documented thing. Now, dogs predicting labor? Maybe not, but this is about a man who just delivered a baby out the rear end, so. 
> 
> A commission for Ashley, GuixonLove here on AO3.


End file.
